Trying to get along with
you for my love, your dad's, sake.
So far, on the surface, all is
pleasant and polite. Then the
little things sneak in, like
referring to me by my name
instead of calling me 'Grandma'
as your dad has requested.
I suppose using my name is an
improvement over the words you
used to call me in your pain.
Making sure to talk about how
an ex, who wasn't even a wife,
will be attending the graduation
and how you are 'responsible'
for picking up 'Grandma' So-and-So.
Perhaps you don't even realize
you are doing these miniature (and possibly
imagined) slights, but I doubt it.
You are me before I decided to change
my life and I am the master of this
sort of game of thrones.
I don't want to, but if I don't pick up my
sword and fight, however diplomatically,
I will be slain.